Auld Lang Syne
by Leo et Lab
Summary: England and Scotland have loathed each other for more than a thousand years, but it's all about to change when Scotland is suddenly presented with the job of taking care of the now 5-year-old England- with Big Brother France's help of course. Contains minor ScotFran and cursing- with fluff to top it off of course.
1. Uninvited Visitors

Chapter 1:

England is having a wonderful day. In fact, today has been so exceptionally nice, that he has decided to enjoy the afternoon with a cup of Twinings on the porch and Shakespeare's _Macbeth._ And the reason of his unusually and rare jovial mood is due to several factors.

There has not been a word from his boss demanding his presence at Parliament, nor has there been any complaint from his neighbors on the continent or his brothers; not even a word from his ex-colonies. As for the weather, the sun is shining _just so_, and after this morning's shower, the outside gleamed beautifully. There is a cool breeze interlacing with the sun's gentle rays, and a few fluffy white clouds float up above, sent on their way to rain on Scotland.

This last thought causes Arthur to chuckle. Undoubtedly, his brothers (and some parts of him, though not many) were receiving horrid weather these days, with this day being no exception. However, as a result of living for near two millennia _(half of which was lost in dark foliage and confusion and fear, the last half and until today is in greed, power, and shifting loyalties),_ England could not shake off the inane feeling of suspicion.

But suspicion is good. It makes you careful. It makes you _think._ And there is not nearly enough thinking as there used to be. Humans today are so careless, so stupid and nonsensical. They do not understand value and have not known since the last thousand years.

_(Albion, he was called in those first, clueless years. It means the white shores of Dover, his pure, beautiful cliffs of chalk, marred only by streaks of black flint. They were, according to historians and geologists alike, once connected France before the Ice Age and floods divided them. But England knows his land best, and they are certainly, _and never will be,_ French.)_

Instead of fruitlessly trying to expel this feeling of suspicion, Arthur instead shoves it away into the back of his mind to be dug out later, when needed. He changes his position as well, uncrossing his legs and bending them backwards, underneath and clinging to the support of his chair. Arthur is considerably much more comfortable, leaning into his seat's cushion and resting his elbows on the arms, and holds open his book.

Compelled by the events of his novel, England does not take notice of the hour, but most importantly, he doesn't heed that someone is knocking angrily upon his door.

That someone is his brother Scotland, and he is accompanied by his good friend, and England's long-term enemy, France. The two were infamous "back in the day" for their Auld Alliance against the Kingdom of England, who posed a dangerous threat against both nations. But the alliance began to sputter out in the 16th century as its main cause was eventually obliterated by the reduction of the English stability after the Hundred Years War and the War of the Roses and, later during the Scottish Reformation, the two Protestant brother-countries became allies.

But all politics and religion aside, _Francis_ and _Alisdair _(not France and Scotland) are generally close friends, and even in this era, enjoy infuriating the stately, aristocratic, Arthur Kirkland, who remains oblivious on his porch, reading _Macbeth._

And so he did not notice his door being kicked down by Alisdair who is furious (and terrified that something horrible and unspeakable has victimized his dear brother. But he does not admit such things. After all, he is _Scottish_). Francis follows through, right at his heels, and the two companions glance briefly into each room as they move swiftly through the house. They find their way to the back door, which slides open and hits the frame loudly with a "_Snap!"_

Arthur jumps in his seat at the abrupt noise and swings around in his seat wildly, only to be confronted by a pair of hairy, crossed arms. He looks up and gazes into narrowed, green eyes and a curled back lip. Arthur sighs and stands up.

"What?"

Scotland growls in the back of his throat, like that of a lion, about to face off against another dominant male. England sneers, as expected, and straightens, puffing out his chest, and draws himself up to his tallest. The Kirkland's are feral, Francis has long since noticed, which is quite appropriate. They are all querulous, unpredictable, and hot-blooded, yearning for vengeance of their wounded egos. Even Wales, the Country of Song, who is the most tranquil and placid of the isles, can turn perilously feisty if someone was to hit a weak spot.

So, knowing the youngest especially well, Francis steps forward, stealing the two brothers' attention, if only for a moment.

"Bon après-midi, en Angleterre," he greets, giving him a winning smile. Arthur, on seeing his rival, bares his teeth in a feline scowl.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Arthur demands from his brother, who in turn, frowns and clucks his tongue.

"Nae need tae be so rude, Art." Alisdair brushes past his little brother and takes a seat across from him. He pulls out a cigarette box and lighter. "He's aer guest." Scotland lights a cigarette and places it in his mouth, something both France and England had witnessed countless times before.

"_'Our'?_" England snarls, his back turned to Francis and all attention again on his oldest sibling. "This is _my_ house. _Not_ 'ours._'_"

My. Mine. _Me._ Oh if France had a Euro for every time he had heard the Englishman even _uttered_ those words.

_(His. Him. He.)_

"Aye. But this is _aer_ land, right? After all, we _are_ one country. So that makes France _our_ guest." Alisdair grins wickedly and Francis musters a rueful smile.

"Per'aps Arthur is not in the mood-"

"Damn right," England grumbles.

"-and we are interrupting 'is quiet time, _oui?"_

Scotland snorts, one leg propped on the small tea-table and an elbow on the arm of the chair. He places his chin on his knuckles with one arm hung lazily by his side and his other leg outstretched, just touching Arthur's calf.

"Arthur is joost bein' a snot-nosed brat _as always._" Alisdair flicks some ash onto the ground.

"Well that _'snot-nosed brat' _is right here," Arthur grinds out. "And the _least_ you could have done is call- how did you even _get_ in here?"

France and Scotland stare at one another, coaxing the other to either make up a reasonable explanation, or tell the truth and suffer the wrath of an Englishman (which compared to a Scot, wouldn't be that bad, but alas, that'd mean France would be the one abused).

"We used the spare key," Francis says coolly as he joins the two Britons at the table and takes a seat. He purposely sits facing Arthur's meticulously nurtured garden between the bickering brothers. At least he could enjoy the view.

"I don't have a spare key," Arthur's voice cuts like a knife to Francis' ears.

"Wot d'ye mean by that?" Scotland asks, coming to his (read _their_) rescue. "You feeling okay, Artie?"

England chuckles coldly. "Are _you_ okay, brother? I'm positively sure I don't have a spare key, and that you'd _never_ ask me such a question." He smirks and takes a sip out of his cuppa, but his face twists into a look of disgust at the taste of the lukewarm tea. He pours the remains into a nearby potted plant.

Francis turns his head so that he is looking only at Scotland and glares at him, who, unsurprisingly, just shrugs and smokes his cig.

"To tell the truth, _Angleterre,_" Scotland kicks Francis to shut him up, "we kicked down your door because you wouldn't answer it."

The two older men wait silently for the Englishman to combust in an explosion of threats and profanity before literally kicking the two out the door (way).

Astonishingly, he nods, smiling, and quips, "I thought that was the case," before picking up his tea set and entering his house. He doesn't spare the two a glance even as he shoulders the sliding door closed.

As soon as England is gone from sight, France kicks Scotland as payback for his own aching leg. He then gets up as well and follows him inside. He finds him fixing another pot of tea in the kitchen.

"I'll be in my study. You know where the toolbox is." England says curtly, sifting through his cupboard in search of teabags. "And get that lazy brother of mine to help!"

* * *

"Absolute prick," Scotland grumbles under his breath as he aligns the door with its frame. "He kens how tae fix a damn door!"

"There, there," France says soothingly as he inspects his friend's work. "But you _did_ kick down his front door."

Alisdair scowls and takes a step back, dusting his shirt off. "And _you?"_

"_I_ just followed _you."_

Scotland opens his mouth to retort, but someone else beats him to it.

"Hey, ginger!"

Alisdair clenches his fist before looking up where Arthur stood on his second floor balcony. The blonde leaned against the ebony metal railing, a saucer and teacup held delicately in his hands. He watches them with his lips set in a bemused smile and a spark of annoyance in his eyes.

"Aye, brat?"

"The door is upside down."

* * *

By the time Scotland had finished (re)fixing the door and he has headed inside for a drink, he couldn't help but overhear Arthur and Francis talking in the parlor- _alone._ He quickly steps aside and, pressing his back to the wall, listens quietly to their conversation.

"...always been a pain in the arse! He's rude, barbaric…"

Scotland scowls at the remarks. _'And you're spoilt, power-hungry, selfish, and wimpy, ye damn bastard!'_

"Even still, he's your oldest brother!"

"That's easy for you to say," England grumbles. "You only have two younger brothers."

"Even so, Romano and I aren't exactly on the best of terms, but we're not at each other's throats, _Lapin."_

"That's because he's _scared_ of you, _Frog."_

Francis is lounging on the sofa opposite of Arthur, who sat poised with his hands folded neatly atop his knee. On the glass table before them was England's best china along with a bottle of newly opened wine. A glass of the red liquid was held elegantly in France's right palm.

"No he isn't. In public he seems so, but in all actuality, he isn't."

"Is that so?" England doesn't sound interested in the slightest, though.

"Well, why do you think he hasn't backed down after all these years?"

Arthur pauses to think, a teacup raised half-way to his mouth. "…Pride?"

This appears to be the answer France was looking for because he nods and gives a knowing smile. He continues to stare at the Brit who silently sips his tea as his smiles slowly dissipates.

"Well?" the Frenchman asks.

"Well what?" Arthur frowns at his company over his cup who sighs in exasperation.

"_Pride,_ Arthur. It's both you and your brother's problem- the others as well, but mostly you and _Écosse._ So maybe if you could stop-"

"I am _not_ proud," snarls England, jumping to his feet. Francis raises a skeptical eyebrow and Arthur's face turns pink. He then turns around, holding his tray of china close to him. "I just… like to do things my way."

When Alisdair realizes that his brother is heading _his_ way, he silently retreats and hurries outside, to Arthur's back yard. He pretends to have been smoking and interests himself in the fae, who flitter anxiously among the flowers.

* * *

"You know, you're more than welcome to head home," Arthur's voice floats from above. Again, he is on the balcony, but instead, he is drying a crystal wine glass (the same one Francis used).

Arthur is always doing something with his hands- embroidering a complicated design, writing notes for the upcoming meeting, turning a page in a book, or tapping out a rhythm on the English oak furniture. When he was a child, though, England _(defenseless, naïve, weak, Albion)_ was a chatter box. He sang, cried, _screamed,_ and laughed with his brothers _("Alba, where's Mummy? I miss her. What if she's lonely? I don't want her to be sad. Alba, do you miss Mummy, too?" "Aye, bairn, Ah dae.")._

"Nae, Ah think Ah'll keep Franny company fer now."

England studies his older brother for a moment before going back inside. Scotland doesn't look up from the fairies who were now playing hide-n-seek. But he hears the door being slid shut and watches through the reflection of a water puddle on the patio tiles. In Arthur's face (not England's, _Arthur's_), however, he sees a flicker of frustration. Did he want him to leave so badly?

Yet why should Alisdair be surprised? Why should he feel even a twinge of resentment for that? They've been quarreling for the past thousand years (and much more, but both brothers can barely recount them) and have never regretted it.

Scotland eventually returns back inside when storm clouds begin to gather and deposit their tear-shaped burdens. As he does, he feels a light tug and turns, surprised, to see a group of fairies clinging onto his sleeve and ducking around him for cover from the rain. Feeling pity for the magical creatures, he lets them into the house, before setting off to search for France.


	2. Hide-N-Seek

Chapter 2:

Francis groans and pulls the pillow over his head. He draws the bed sheets tighter around him to block out the roars of thunder and flashes of lightning. If there is one thing Francis hates more than being woken up, is being woken up by a storm.

However, above the clashing of the weather, France hears something not quite normal. Moving quickly –he is sure it is a human- he clambers out of bed and stumbles to the door. France pokes his head out of the doorway, and sure enough, in a few seconds of just the hammering of the rain, he hears a low wailing like that of a child sobbing.

He hurries to the next room, where Scotland is sound asleep and snoring loudly. The walls tremble and France wonders subconsciously if it is because of the outbursts of thunder or his friend's slumbering. But he rushes to Scotland's side and shake him awake by the shoulder. The redhead growls and sits up, glaring at France.

"Ye better have a good reason tae wake me up, laddie."

"I think," France gulps in a breath of air, "I think there is a child outside."

"Wot?" Alisdair springs to his feet, though, and follows Francis out of his room. "Are you sure? I don't-"

Scotland is cut off when the lighting and thunder freeze for a good five seconds and the wailings of the child grow louder. The two friends look at each other straight in the eye before taking off down the hallway.

"It sure doesn't sound like it's comin' from outside," states Scotland as they skid to a stop in front of England's room where the cries seemed to be coming from. They quickly burst through the door and flip on the lights, but stop dead in their tracks.

_"Qu'est-ce ...?"_

France stares straight ahead, gaping, in the direction of England's bed. There, where Arthur should be sleeping, sat a little boy in far too big pajamas. He had messy, fair hair and pale, pink skin. His green eyes were bright, yet were rubbed red from his weeping. And there, right above his eyes, were a pair of big, hairy eyebrows. He was a carbon copy of England.

Yet only Scotland could see the group of fairies clustered about the boy. They were trying desperately to cheer the poor child and ease his fear. Alisdair narrows his eyes and quickly approaches the green-eyed boy- "Little England" he's dubbed him.

Little England looks up, frightened, and scoots away from the Scotsman who immediately stops walking. Scotland hears a thump behind him and glances in the bedroom mirror to see France sprawled unconscious on the carpet from shock. _'Or maybe it's the fae again.'_

Scotland forces himself to smile at Little England and crouches down so that he didn't intimidate the child as much. He takes an awkward step forward, but the boy doesn't try to move away and soon finds himself before Little England.

"What did ye do now, Artie?" Alisdair breathes, staring at Little England,

The boy suddenly jumps forward into Scotland's arms, burying his face into the man's neck. Startled, Scotland falls backwards onto his back, but holds on to England. He feels wet on his shoulder and strokes the boy's head reluctantly.

"Nae- no need to cry, Arthur." But England continued to sob silently into Scotland's shoulder. What did Mum do when they were crying? Oh wait, she _sang._

"Ahem. Um…" Alisdair took in a breath and began to sing.

"_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,_

_ And never be brought to mind?_

_ Should auld acquaintance be forgot,_

_ And auld lang syne!"_

Arthur sniffled and looks up at his big brother, blinking away tears. Alisdair stops his caroling and smiles at the small child. Using his shirt, he dries Arthur's eyes.

"Is that better, Art?" Scotland murmurs, standing up.

England nods, clinging onto his older brother. "Th-thank you," he stutters, "Alba."

Scotland blinks at the sound of the old name. "…You're welcome, Albion."

* * *

By the time France awoke, Scotland had heaved him into England's bed (like he would carry him all the way down the hallway!) and the sun had just barely risen above the horizon. Scotland and England were already eating "breakfast" when France shuffles into the kitchen.

"Mornin' Sleeping Beauty," Scotland says, grinning over the papers.

However, France ignores him and stares at Arthur. _'Mon dieu…It wasn't a dream!'_ The English boy shifts uncomfortably in his gaze and tries to duck his head behind his… _'Is that even food?'_

"Arthur, why aren't ye eating? I thought ye were hungry." Scotland frowns at his little brother.

"I _was,"_ Arthur mutters. "But I don't like sowans. It tastes weird."

"Nonsense! It tastes delicious!" And, to prove it, the Scotsman takes a spoonful of the porridge-like breakfast item and shovels it into his mouth. "See? _I'm_ eating it, so why can't you?"

"Because he has brains," France interjects, snatching up the bowl of… _swans? _Is that what Arthur said?

Apparently Mary, Queen of Scots, didn't have as much as an effect on Scottish cuisine with her French cooks as much as France had hoped. For when he tried to pour the substance down the sink and into the disposer, the _"swans"_ refused to budge.

"Are you sure this is cooked properly_, Écosse?_ I'm pretty sure cereal doesn't normally have the solidifying rate of _ciment."_

Scotland scoffs, crossing his arms. "Well, I-I may have boiled it longer than usual…"

"It's too sour," England suddenly pipes up, reminding Francis of his previous question.

"No it isn't," differs Alisdair, tossing the papers onto the table. "It's supposed to be like that."

France watches Scotland scold England. Rather, he watches just England… _'I must be hallucinating,'_ he muses, frowning in thought.

"Oi, Franny. You okay, there? You don't seem very…_French_ today."

"Hm? Oh, it's nothing. I was _just_ wondering…" Francis gestures wildly at England. _"How?"_

England and Scotland exchange looks as if they were exchanging words instead. Arthur shrugs and Scotland goes back to reading the newspapers.

"Excusez-moi," growls France. "But per'aps I am missing something," he stomps over to the two Britons, "but I am quite sure _Angleterre _was _twenty-three_ years old yesterday and for the last few centuries, _not four!"_

"I'm five," corrects England, scowling at the Frenchman (actually it looked more like a pout than anything).

"That doesn't explain what happened."

"Magic," Scotland interrupts. "It was magic- the fae's to be more accurate."

Francis was now seriously concerned for his and his friend's mental health. "But magic doesn't exist."

"Oh but it does."

"Are you sure you didn't poison him with your cooking? That makes much more sense than 'magic.'"

"Screw you."

"I love you too_, Écosse."_

* * *

Ultimately, France never left London like he had planned the day before. Instead, feeling sympathetic for England, he decided to stay for a few days, until he was…back to normal. And anyways, knowing Scotland, he couldn't tend to a potted plant's needs, let alone a small child's.

"_Bon appétit_!" France slides a dish of _pot-au-feu_ in front of England, smiling when the child brightens up at the sight of the French beef stew.

Francis takes a seat across from Scotland, who had already tucked into the savory _plat du jour_. He settles into his own meal and the trio lapse into silence.

_'I wonder if my boss is annoyed at me right now. I _did_ say that I'd be back today._' France pulls out his phone and scrolls through his list of recently missed calls as he eats the tender meat. _'I guess he isn't. There aren't any calls from him…'_

"Arthur, ye made a mess o' yerself!"

France looked up to see Scotland wiping England's carrot-y mouth. Grinning, Francis begins to clean up the little boy's stained shirt.

"Alisdair, I had no idea you could be so…_fatherly,"_ he purrs, his own head just hovering above Scotland's as they stooped over England.

"Quiet you," Scotland grumbles, but Arthur could see that he was smiling. "And what would that make you?"

"Mummy Francis."

"…my God."

* * *

England stood barefoot in the tall cattails surrounding the koi pond. They had been a gift from Japan, he recounts, watching the golden fish swim in their manmade home. Then, reaching into a pot, he pulls out a handful of fish food. He lets the pebble-like objects drop out of his a few at a time like sand in a time turner. The fish greedily race and push one another out of the way for the treats.

Inside the house, Scotland was watching TV. England guessed he had already forgotten about him and was too immersed in the rugby game to notice his absence. As for France, the Frenchman had gone out to buy clothes for the 5-year-old. The clothes that Arthur was currently wearing were sloppily put together using his sewing machine and sheets of cloth found in his closet.

When he runs out of fish food, he stretches out quickly to touch one of the fish, but it darts away along with the other marine animals.

But England was determined to pet the koi.

Rolling up his pants, Arthur steps cautiously into the shallow water. The stones under his feet were soft and slippery with algae and tickled him. Doing his best to ignore the feeling of the plants, he steps deeper into the pool. The water was up to his waist. How deep was this pond again?

* * *

Meanwhile, Scotland's game was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the front door being opened and slammed shut.

"Be careful with that!" he calls over his shoulder. "Ah joost fixed it!"

France appears at Alisdair's side a moment later, a shopping bag in one hand and a wallet in the other.

"I'm out of pounds," he states simply.

"So?"

"So, since _this problem,"_ Francis shakes the bag, "is _your_ fault, you owe me £60."

Scotland made a choking sound. "Exactly _how much_ did ye buy?"

"I also accept Euros- it's be about €70 if I'm correct." France continues with a smile, but immediately frowns. "Where is _Angleterre?_ I have to see if these fit."

"What do you mean? He's right here…" Scotland had turned to his right where he was sure, _just five seconds ago,_ little England had been sitting. But there was no green-eyed boy with messy blonde hair sitting beside him. "Shite."

"You _lost_ him?" France seethes, dropping the shopping bag. "I leave you for only a _few minutes,_ and you- and-and!"

Scotland places one hand on France's shoulder. "Calm down, Francis. He's probably just playing hide-n-seek. You look down here, I'll check upstairs. Sound good?"

Francis does as Alisdair says and nods.

"Good. Now let's get tae work."

* * *

England skirts around the edge of the pond, eyeing the fish. Whenever he had tried to get near, they would just swim to the other side of the pool. He spots a solitary koi, though, that was just an arm's length away.

Arthur bends his knees and pounces on the golden animal. However, the sneaky fish had foreseen his plans and rejoined its friends on the other side of the pond. Arthur stumbled to his feet, spluttering.

Curse that stupid fish!

* * *

"This isn't funny, Arthur. Come out of your hiding spot," France calls out half-heartedly.

When he receives no answer, he sighs and leaned against the refrigerator, pinching the bridge of his nose. Although he had searched the entire first floor twice, he came up fruitless. But didn't he and England play this game when they were kids?

_'And I won every single round,'_ France mused. Yes, even when the smaller nation fled to the forest, France would find him. When they were playing in the castle, he would find him. When they went to the town marker, he would find him.

So why couldn't he find him now?

_'Think, France! Where would England hide?'_

_ France steps cautiously over a tree root, trying to be as silent as he could. All around him are trees. There are tall, fat oaks and small, skinny saplings. Mushrooms, grasses, and flowers sprang out of the ground among bushes. The bushes were also different. They displayed berries of all colors, flowers of all shapes and sizes, and the strangest insects as well._

_ A nearby bush catches France's eye. It is green– obviously –the type of green that you imagine a valley with a field of flowers to be. It bares spherical, crimson berries. _'It looks like _Angleterre's_ cloak,'_ France thinks with a smile._

_ "_Mon petit lapin,_ I have found you!" he exclaims, diving into the undergrowth. _

_ France hears a squeal in his right ear and makes a grab with his arms. When he feels the softness of fur and locks of hair, he stands up, bringing a surprised, little boy up with him. The boy was a head shorter than him, and unlike France, who adorned a blue tunic with golden trimming, wore a long green cloak over a plain white tunic. A red ribbon held the cloth together his neck and dirty, patched up boots were all he had for his shoes._

_ "How did you find me?" England demands, still in the French boy's arms. _

_ "It's a trade secret," France replies, winking._

"Outside!" France exclaims aloud, before rushing out of the kitchen and to the backdoor. He quickly swings open the door and steps onto the porch before poking his head back into the house."_Écosse! _Hurry! I think he's outside!"

Without waiting for an answer, France strides back outside and took a look around. Like he had seen just yesterday, Arthur's garden was as impeccable and perfect as ever. But there was a problem.

_'England has too much free time!'_ France growls under his breath.

Small, rose bushes lined the edge of the patio, but on the other edge grew tall hedges. They were about seven feet tall, France only then notices. They made a hallway-like path down the middle to a fountain that didn't work. Instead, it was used like a series of shelves to grow lavender.

"Damn."

France doesn't need to even glance to know that Scotland is now by his side, gaping at the "garden."

"When did your brother grow a maze?"

"I guess when the Goblet of Fire came out."

"Typical. But I like the stone fountain. It's very attractive."

"Agreed, but I hope there aren't any giant spiders."

"Let's not think about that right now, _mon ami."_


	3. A Busy Day

Chapter 3

England's maze was actually a lot smaller than France had previously thought. It appeared to be symmetrical, but that along wasn't enough to help them find the little boy soon. Scotland and him have passed by a tree stump that acted as a tea table (it looked like something right out of Alice From Wonderland), shrubbery shaped like lions, an archery set with the target hanging on the maze wall (Alisdair was tempted to try it out, but France had already dragged him away), and a variety of plants (one of which was carnivorous).

They finally chanced upon a set of muddy footprints, small with stubby toes like that of England. France and Scotland only needed to follow the tracks until they then reached a koi pond with, as expected, their lost little rabbit.

Except this rabbit was soaking wet and cold from trying (after countless attempts) to catch a fish.

"Arthur Kirkland," growls Alisdair, crossing his arms and glowering at the little boy.

England whips around, surprised. "…Yes?"

"Don't 'Yes?' me! Do you know how long it took for us tae find ye? Not only that, Francis and I were driven crazy when ye joost ran off like that!"

Arthur bowed his head, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and guilt. "I'm sorry," he said meekly. "I didn't know." England stares at his feet, ashamed.

Francis sighs and crouches in front of England. "_Petit lapin,"_ he murmurs. England looks away. "Come now, _Angleterre_. We were just scared you got in trouble. We aren't mad."

Arthur finally faces Francis, his eye brimming with tears. "I'm s-sorry."

"We know, _mon petit lapin_. It's okay." France draws the boy into a hug, wincing at the touch of his soggy clothes and clammy skin. He ignores it though, and carries him. "But you can make it up by helping us out of this maze."

England's face splits into a grin and he nods. "Right this way!"

* * *

When the three of them reached the patio (which really only took a few seconds), Scotland went inside to fetch a towel, leaving Francis and Arthur standing on the patio. As they waited for Scotland to return, France wrung out England's shirt.

"How did you get so wet?" France inquires, twisting the badly stitched up cloth.

"I, uh, fell into the fish pond." England answers, only telling part of the truth.

France unrolls the shirt and waves it up and down to expel any remaining water. "Why weren't you being careful?"

"Why not?"

_"Lapin,"_ he says warningly and Arthur winces.

"I just wanted to touch the fish." Arthur's face heats up. He kicks the ground with the heel of his foot.

Francis bursts into laughter, though, surprising the younger nation. "That's it? Oh I nearly thought you almost drowned!"

Arthur huffs and crosses his arms across his bare chest. "No way! I may not be a great swimmer, but I can still swim! _Especially,_ if it's just a pond."

France chuckles and pats England on the top of his head. "Okay, I won't doubt you from now on."

"Ah'm back! Missed me?" Scotland appeared at the doorway, carrying two towels. "Alrigh', come here you."

Arthur trudges over to the Scotsman who begins to dry the little boy as much as he could. After that, he wraps the towel around Arthur's shoulders and picks him up.

"Ye need a bath," Alisdair says, wrinkling his nose. "Ye smell bloody awful."

"Only a little…"

* * *

"Keep yer eyes closed," nags Scotland as he scrubs England's head, who makes a whining noise at the feel of it. He then picks up the shower extension and rinses out the shampoo bubbles while England covers his eyes with his small hands. "There. Now use the body soap while I go check on the washing machine. It's been acting up, aye?"

"Aye," replies England as Scotland stands up, flashing the little boy a smile.

"Don't drown," he calls over his shoulder as he exits the bathroom. Alisdair heads down the hallway to the closet where the washing machine and dryer along with toiletries were kept. As he neared, he could hear France muttering colorfully, with his head stuck into the mechanism's mouth.

Scotland quiets his steps as he approaches the Frenchman. Then, right behind France, Scotland slaps the blonde hard on the back. As anticipated, Francis jumps in surprise, hitting his head against the ceiling of the machine.

_"Bâtard!"_ spits Francis, glaring at the laughing Scotsman. "_What _was that for?!"

"Nothing," sniffs Alisdair, trying his best to muffle his mirth. "Ah have joost always wanted tae do that!" He gives his friend a shit-eating grin before grabbing several bottles off the closet shelves.

"At least I found the source of our latest problems," France announces. Then, reaching into the washing machine, he pulls out a shiny object. "I found the spare key."

* * *

"Only girls use conditioner, Scot," grumbles Arthur as his older brother squirts a bit of the said substance into the palm of his hand.

"Not true. Francis conditions."

"France doesn't count."

"You're joost being stubborn."

"No, I'm being _contentious."_

Scotland raises an eyebrow at England before raking his hands through the boy's hair. England slumps his shoulders with a "Hmph!" As Alisdair washed Arthur's hair with one hand, he handed the blonde one of the two bottles he got from the closet.

"Bubbles?"

"Aye. Now empty it."

"Aye!"

Arthur turned the container upside down and began emptying out the contents into the bath. Seeing the material swirl aimlessly in the water without producing any bubbles, Arthur began to splash the mixture with his hands and feet. Scotland grinned at his little brother, despite getting sprayed by the soapy substance. Within seconds the entire tub was filled with white bubbles of all sizes and England was craning his neck to keep sight of Scotland.

"Okay, now time fer a rinse!"

England quickly closes his eyes and holds his breath as the Scotsman begins to wash out any conditioner in his hair. As it was done, the bubbles around the little boy subsided and the two brothers could see each other clearly.

"Alright lad, now for the second bottle!"

"I think that's enough, though…"

Arthur trailed off as Scotland ignored him and poured the liquid. Forgetting about his precious statement, he kicked his feet and flailed his arms, generating much more bubbles. Even Alisdair took part in the frenzy, laughing.

"Oi, laddie, ye have a beard!" Scotland chuckled, scooping up a handful of bubbles and placing it like a crown on England's head. "An' now a hat!"

"Well you have sideburns!" Arthur reached up and slapped a bunch of the globs on the side of Alisdair's face.

The two commenced their bubble bath war until they heard a knock on the door.

"Are you two playing around, or are you done?" France called from the other door. "Dinner will be ready in five minutes and I have _l'Angleterre _clothes!"

"Aye!" replies Scotland. "We're joost about done."

"Good!" France enters the steamy bathroom, a set of clothes in his arms. "I hope these fit…" He stops short at the sight of the foamy mess the Briton's made.

"Look, Francis, Scotty has sideburns!" England giggled and points at said Scotsman.

"Oui. He looks much more handsome!" France smiles at Scotland before squatting beside him in front of England. "But now _mon petit lapin_ is covered in suds!" He takes the shower head and washes away the bubbles before wrapping a clean towel around the boy and picking him up.

"Ah, you smell so nice, _Angleterre!"_ Francis kisses the five-year-old on the forehead.

"What? He gets a kiss and I don't?" Alisdair teases, standing up.

Francis smiles and presses his lips against the Scotsman's forehead. "There. Now shoo; the table won't set itself, _mon ami_."

Scotland's face reddens and he quickly takes his leave, mumbling incoherently under his breath. France places England on the bathroom counter and unfolds a t-shirt he bought for the little boy.

"Here. This looks very nice, doesn't it?"

Arthur wrinkles his nose at the sight of the shirt (shiny buttons and a _collar_) and rolls his eyes. "_Sure_, Francis."

* * *

Dinner is French, of course. France cooked up _chicken liver pâté_ with a side of light _salade aux lardons_. The food was remarkable, Scotland and England admitted, although not aloud. Instead, they chatted about various other things.

"_Écosse_, you have yet to pay me €70!" Francis eventually brings up. "You can't actually let me pay for all of that!"

"Ah ken! Ah ken, but joost let me pay off another time. Ah only have," Scotland retrieves his wallet from his pocket, "£30."

"Hm, well I don't mind if you _just_ pay half the price," Francis answers after some thinking. "Is that fair?"

"…Fine." Scotland places his money on the table and France happily takes the notes, counting them to make sure he got what he was due.

But both men are distracted at the sound of England yawing loudly.

"Tired, lad?" Scotland asks, ruffling the boy's hair.

"Mm…" His head bobs up and down as he tried to stay awake. England yawns once more.

"We all are," France speaks up. "I think we should all go to bed. It's getting late."

Alisdair silently agrees and picks up Arthur who hugs the Scot's neck and hugs his neck. Francis follows closely behind, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion.

Arthur doesn't loosen his grip even when he closes his eyes _(a fairy flutters just out of sight, watching gleefully from behind the curtains)_ and Alisdair tucks him into bed. Alisdair, weary, just curls up beside the little boy. As he closes his eyes, Scotland feels two arms slip around his waist and a head of silky hair press into the crook of his neck.

"Oi…What are you doing?" Scotland whispers, glowering half-heartedly at France who had decided that the red head was as good as a pillow as any.

"I'm tired," France murmurs into Scotland's neck.

Scotland grunts in answer and turns his head away from the Frenchman to hide his flushing cheeks. As he does so, though, he drapes an arm across France's shoulders.

"Scot?"

Scotland glances down at his little brother who looks up at him tiredly.

"Aye, laddie?" he mumbles.

"Can you sing me a song, please?"

"Sure." Scotland takes in a deep breath before singing.

_"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, _

_ And never brought to mind? _

_ Should auld acquaintance be forgot, _

_And auld lang syne! _

_ For auld lang syne, my dear, _

_ For auld lang syne. _

_ We'll take a cup o' kindness yet, _

_ For auld lang syne..."_

Gentle snores tell Alisdair that Arthur had fallen asleep. He smiles at the Brit and kisses the top of his head. A melodic, velvety voice sighs into his ear.

_"Bonne nuit, ma chérie."_

"Good night, Francis."

A/N: First things first, I'd like to thank Alexei (SnipersInTheTrees) and her brother Wade for their continued support! ^^ I would also like to thank all the other readers for their kind feedback. Just one more chapter, you guys!


	4. New Beginnings

Chapter 4:

_'Thump."_

England shot upright with start. Blinking, dazed, he realized he had fallen off the bed.

A second later, he realized he was back to his normal age.

But he was naked.

His clothes he had worn the night before were ripped from his sudden growth. Gathering the rags, England peeks over the edge of the bed at Scotland and France.

Scotland was sprawled across the bed and France had made himself at home, curling his body against the Scot's. An arm hugged Scotland's abdomen while the other was strewn across his chest and clasped the man's hand. France rested his head on Scotland's shoulder, the arm wrapped around the Frenchman's waist.

A babble of giggles like bells distracts Arthur. He turns around to see a group of fairies- garden fairies no doubt- on the wardrobe. They were carrying a folded up bathrobe atop their heads as they floated towards him.

"Thank you," Arthur says softly, as to not wake the sleeping pair. He reaches out for the clothes, but he magical creatures move just out of arm reach. "That's not very nice."

Darting forward, England succeeds in snatching the red attire from the fae. He quickly pulls the clothes over his body as the fairies scatter, squeaking angrily. Sucks for them.

He heads to his own bedroom and changes into more appropriate apparel (cargo pants and a plain "Keep Calm and Carry On" shirt). After dressing, Arthur heads downstairs to the kitchen to make some much needed tea and biscuits.

As the kettle is boiling, he spots a golden key by the stove. Examining it, he realizes it was his old spare key he lost several months ago. He tucks it in his shorts pocket.

_'I'll put this in the pond,'_ he muses with a smile. If those idiots want it, they'll have to find it. And as for now, they'll also have to ring his doorbell instead of kicking his door down.

He leaves the kitchen to hide the key. Sucks for France and Scotland as well.

* * *

By the time Francis and Alisdair stumble into the kitchen, Arthur had washed most of the dishes and poured three cups of tea. At the sight of the Englishman, they stand, gazing dumbfounded at him.

"Good morning," greets Arthur, placing a cup in each of the man's hands.

"Morning," France finally says, blinking at him before glancing at Scotland.

"Right! Morning!" Scotland takes a tentative sip of the hot liquid. "So, you're 'back.'"

"Yes, I'm back." Arthur places the last of the clean dishes into the drying rack. "I think it was the French food last night. It was a nice break from _your_ cooking." He grins at Alisdair whose face reddens, but manages to smile back.

Both brothers would pretend for _their_ guest that the previous day's events were nothing but an unavoidable aftereffect of eating British food for two thousand years. Yet they knew of the fae and their sneaky magic _(the fae are naughty, brilliant, and stubborn; and they are British to the core)._

"Oh, and Angleterre?"

"Yes?"

"Have you seen a golden key anywhere?"

England stares thoughtfully into his cuppa. "No, I can't say I have. All the keys in my house are silver, though. Why?"

Francis waves his hand dismissively. "Nothing important. So, what do you two want for breakfast?"

"Scones."  
"Sowans."

Francis stares at the brothers, dismayed. How could their taste buds stand burnt pastries and…_swans?!_

"Bread rolls and oatmeal is all I'm making for you two."

* * *

_One month later…_

Scotland's eyes darted around the conference room. This was the first meeting in a long time he was allowed to attend. Usually it as England who went in his brothers' stead, but today, the Englishman had agreed to bring Scotland with him.

The meeting is Paris, and the room's windows overlooked the beautiful Eiffel Tower. France, the host of the conference, had told Scotland the other day how hard it was to find such a wonderful view. However, he had felt a bit sorry for the to-be husband and wife wanting to rent the room for their banquet.

Scotland sat on Arthur's right and beside France. The Italian twins sat next to the Frenchman (with the northern one in the middle). Spain sat on the other side of Romano. The pattern of seating continued as such, with the nations sitting beside their friends. However, there were a few absences with the weaker countries who were suffering from the recent economic decline.

But once all the expected representatives took their seats, the meeting began on time without any disturbance. Francis was first, addressing the latest events that took place at his home and anything else regarded to him. After he finished, North Italy stood up to give his speech.

After Lovino takes a seat and Antonio stands, Alisdair realizes –with contempt- that he and Arthur will be last. However, he ignores the feeling and refocuses on the _real_ problems.

Each individual spoke for about ten to twenty minutes, depending on their current events. The meeting started at 8 AM, and by the time half of the nations spoke, it was 11.

"Ve~! Deutschland, I'm hungry!" complained Feliciano, rubbing his stomach for emphasis. "Can we eat lunch now?"

The German sighs and looks at the room's grandfather clock. Well, it _was_ about time he usually had ate lunch, and he was hungry…

"Alright. But after one hour, I expect everyone to be back from our break. Then we will pick up from where we left off." Ludwig orders and everyone immediately begin to pack their stuff.

Arthur neatly places his notes and paperwork in a file in his suitcase. He puts his pens neatly in his breast pocket and brushes any eraser shavings (even the ones Alisdair left) into his cupped hand to be dumped in the trashcan.

"C'mon Arthur, we don't have all day!" Scotland nags impatiently. Out of the corner of his eye he spies Francis with his younger brothers and Spain just about to leave the room. "Oi, Franny!"

France turns around, an eyebrow cocked inquiringly. "_Oui_?"

"Mind if Art and I," Scotland suppresses a wince as England stomps on his big toe, "join you guys? We don't know many places 'round here."

"Sure!" France grins and beckons the two Britons over. "I know all the finest restaurants in Paris. Much better than your _cuisine britannique, oui?"_

"Hold on a minute!" growled Arthur before yanking Alisdair by the ear, forcing the Scotsman to crouch as he hissed into his ear. "I am _not_ eating with that Spanish bastard!"

"Oh cheer up, Artie!" Alisdair tries to stand, but Arthur doesn't loosen his pinch on the Scot's ear.

"Too bad! I'm eating with someone else!"

"Arthur," a voice floats to their ears, "are you fighting with your brother again?"

The two Britons turn to see Portugal standing before them. Her dark brown hair was tied in one long braid that as wound into a bun. Caramel eyes glimmered curiously and she tilted her head teasingly.

"N-no, what makes you think that?"

Scotland stares at his little brother with a bemused smile. "Aye, Andréa, we're being good boys."

"Well that's good to hear." The Portuguese woman slips an arm around Arthur's, smiling fondly at him. "I hope you two don't mind if I join you guys."

"Not at all!" Arthur chirps, grinning. "But let's go now. We don't have all day!"

* * *

"_Idioto!_ What makes you think I will pay for-"

"_Tais-toi! Tais-toi!_ If Antonio is paying for his share, then why don't you?"

England growled into his drink as France and Romano bantered. At first they argued over where to eat, later on Romano complained about the food, and now the two brothers won't agree on how much to pay. The Italian wanted to "go Dutch", but Francis simply quipped with a "Too bad" and stated he'll pay for only his meal.

Arthur and Alisdair exchanged smiles, recounting how they used to fight like that. Ah, the memories.

"Ye know," begins Scotland, cutting into the fighting brother's squabble, "you two remind me of these two brothers who fought _all_ the time."

England hides a grin behind his glass. "Oh, I know who you're talking about. Weren't they fighting ever since, hm, they were kids?"

"Aye! A bunch of eejits, they were!"

Arthur opens his mouth to agree, but is broken off by Francis. "I love you two, but _please_ just _be quiet!"_

The two Britons immediately fall silent at the outburst. England glowers at the Frenchman who had commenced his and Romano's dispute. He glances to his left to see that Portugal had left. He wasn't surprised- and wished he followed.

"You know, you two aren't exactly quiet, either," sneers England. He sees Germany, Veneziano, and Spain tense. "And you sound like children as well."

"Why you," splutters Romano, but England plows on.

"Not only that, but you guys have been fighting for who knows donkey's years! Alisdair and I get on fine these days. Why can't _you_? Furthermore, the fact that you shout at _us,_ who are trying to help, is extremely uncouth and shameless!"

The table has gone silent, but the people in the restaurant around them don't take any notice. France and Romano sit solemnly in their seats, sulking. North Italy sinks a bit in own chair, only wanting to disappear behind Germany. The German shifts uncomfortably and regrets not joining Austria and Hungary for lunch instead. Spain silently applauds England, but feels sympathetic for his friends' chagrin.

Alisdair, though, claps softly and slowly. Yet he has a way of making sound travel, especially with his rough, callused, and enormous hands. His voice was also rough, though he somehow made it flow like a slow, steady stream. And it was in this tone he spoke.

"I agree. Though, I don't think it's possible for there not to be a wee indifference between two human beings. It's only a problem if someone lets it get outta hand." Alisdair looks at Arthur. "Or carries a grudge fer centuries on end."

"Why are you looking at _me_?" Arthur feigns offense. "I _never_ did anything. I was a good little boy, remember?"

"Sure ye were," drawls Scotland. "But the point is, just _stop fighting."_

England quickly adds, "_Please._ It's annoying."

"…fine."

All heads whip around to Lovino, who had been the firs to reply.

"_But,"_ the Italian points at Francis, "only if he agrees."

The Frenchman doesn't speak, though, and takes a small sip of his red wine. Everyone stares at him, waiting. Finally he nods.

"Very well then," he says slowly. "We'll try."

"Evviva!" Feliciano draws his older brothers into a tight embrace. "Hurray! Now we can cook dinner together!"

Arthur leans back into his seat, smiling to himself. A heavy arm drops itself across his small shoulders and he looks up to stare directly into Alisdair's spring-green eyes.

"You did good, lad." Scotland grins and ruffles England's already messy hair.

But instead of growling and swatting the man's hand away as he usually did, England returns his smile and shakes his bangs out of his eyes. "Thank you. And so did you. I'm impressed."

* * *

After lunch, the countries met back in the conference room on time. As England and Scotland sat in their previous spots beside one another, Arthur spies an orange-headed man step into the room. He watched him chat briefly with Germany before heading to his own seat.

"Hey, Ireland!" he shouts across the room, causing several heads to turn his way. "Why don't you have a seat with your brothers for once?"


End file.
